


The Best Butter

by SandrC



Series: I Wish to Lodge a Complaint [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Amnesty Arc, Character Study, F/F, TAZ: Amnesty - Freeform, and a nerd, because I am predictable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-03-28 02:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13894695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. `What a funny watch!' she remarked. `It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!'`Why should it?' muttered the Hatter. `Does your watch tell you what year it is?'`Of course not,' Alice replied very readily: `but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together.'`Which is just the case with mine,' said the Hatter.(Or: the incidents that make the Pineguard who they are.)





	1. Mock Turtle

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a nerd with predictable standards. You're welcome. Three chapters are planned. You know the drill. Don't expect much save for a fuckton of HCs.
> 
> You're welcome.

Aubrey Little is seven and a friend asks her if she knows Audrey Hepburn. Confused, she looks her up (though at the time, search engines are terrible, so the investigation takes a half hour) and realizes that Audrey is _gorgeous_ and _holy fuck I think I like girls?!_ That wouldn't be an issue if it weren't for the fact that she wasn't going by _Aubrey_ at the time. She was just chubby, effeminate Albert Little, son of Leticia Little, who didn't have a word for feeling like she wasn't _right_ and _definitely_ didn't have a word for girls liking girls at the time. So she sits and stews in the uncomfortable gut bubbling of _I like girls but why is this weird and why do I feel weird about it?_

Aubrey Little is almost thirteen when she kisses a girl for the first time. The girl's name is Nancy Spire and she kisses like a plunger on a broken shitter. Aubrey gets the air pulled _right_ out of her and it's wet and unpleasant but that's how _all_ kisses are, yeah? And Nancy would know, 'cuz she's kissed _teenagers_ before and she says _they_ say she kisses _super_ great. They waffle back and forth about dating before Aubrey waves away Nancy with an excuse that _totally_ isn't because Nancy is a giant bitch. (Aubrey is relieved when, later, Nancy calls her a fag and a tranny when she starts wearing skirts and nail polish. Relieved that she didn't commit to a transphobic cunt. Relieved that she had a reason to hate her past her kissing like a dying fish. Relieved that there were words out there that people would try to weaponize against her and they were just so _sad_.)

Aubrey Little is fifteen and she's had to move half a dozen times since she blacked Nancy Spire's eye for pantsing her in Phys-Ed. Each time it's easier to introduce herself as Aubrey and it hurts more when the rejection starts again. When she tries kissing a boy for the first time, she contemplates how unyielding his mouth is. She wonders how she should feel. She thinks about "faggot" and "tranny" and "queer" and "broken". She thinks about how pretty Sigourney Weaver was in Alien and how she wants to gently slot into Dame Julie Andrews' embrace and how nice it might feel to make love to Lucy Liu. She doesn't say a word when the boy breaks the kiss and awkwardly says she has stubble and it's fucking feels like he's kissing a boy. (Three weeks later, Leticia gets a job outside of Bend and Aubrey doesn't say how relieved she is when they pack up again. She doesn't mention how none of the boys would look at her. She doesn't mention being forced to use the guy's toilets. She doesn't mention the razors she's stashed in her room to get rid of her facial hair. She doesn't mention the hole in her chest as she realizes her body feels _wrong_.)

Aubrey Little is nineteen when she learns another unkind way the world will rail against her. She's lesbian, which she's come to terms with. As an adult, she can be who she wants and she wants to be Aubrey _fucking_ Little god _dammit_. She tucks and uses breast forms with cute bras and compression girdles. She doesn't mind the facial hair because all young black women are prone to it but she still shaves. Her first girlfriend of her adult life is a waif of a girl named Amy who _lives_ for the height difference between them. She's also a gold-star lesbian and Aubrey is upset by how callously she shoves her away when it all comes down. (Not much later Aubrey moves to San Fransisco and finds joy in magicians. She's always loved magic since she was little but seeing it performed live is a delight. She's _definitely_ not running from pain and she _definitely_ didn't break into Amy's workplace and steal a large rabbit being used to test makeup. She also _super_ didn't keep the rabbit and didn't give it a doctorate in happy-making.)

Aubrey Little is almost twenty-one and she's best friends with Derek Annily. They spend a lot of time together and learn that gender and sexuality are fluid and more ephemeral than they could've ever imagined. Curious, Aubrey kisses Derek. He doesn't kiss like Nancy did—thank _fuck_ —but it's different than kissing Amy. His lips are chapped and his tongue is tentative, asking, waiting; Amy's lips were always soft and fruit or coffee flavored, pushing and plush as she bit away and left soft bruises blister forth on Aubrey's lower lip. Both of them are awkward and both of them apologize when it's all over. Derek is testing to see if his attraction to men is wholly for masculine features instead of gender and Aubrey just wants affection. They remain good friends and Derek even laughs when Aubrey helps catfish a homophobic ex of his. They part on good terms when Aubrey takes her show on the road. His current boyfriends are very accommodating and one even packs her a protein-rich travel lunch. She only cries a _little_ bit.

Aubrey Little is nearing twenty-five when she arrives in Modesto, Dr. Harris Bonkers under one arm and a heart full of hope. She's learned a lot about pyrotechnics and prestidigitation since those days in San Francisco and can pick pockets as easily as cheating at games of Find the Lady. But she's an honorable person so it's magic all the way. ( _Most_ of the time.) Magic doesn't pay well outside of casinos and tourist traps but it's her passion and she loves it. Never mind the gold-star assholes she leaves behind whenever she moves on. Never mind the broken hearts and flushed cheeks and lack of sex because she can't afford surgery and _kinda_ doesn't want it. Never mind the pain and emptiness that plagues her nights sometimes. She has magic and her rabbit and she runs as fast as she can when she accidentally sets the hotel ablaze. Looks like Modesto is out of the question. Most of the west coast really. She heads east.

Aubrey Little is twenty-seven and pulling into Kepler in Mama's big ol' truck. The aforementioned larger woman is happily chatting about various niceties, her smartphone plugged in and playing some classic country tunes. She is twenty-seven and blushing at a pretty girl in the Lodge, accidentally setting something on fire with her mind alone. She is twenty-seven and standing in front of a gate leading to another world as someone steps out of it and another person drives into it. She is twenty-seven and setting a totally-never-was-a-bear on fire as Ranger Rick and Conman McGee attempt to hold it off, wondering if this is how her life is going to be now, with magic and all. She is twenty-seven and blacking out from a concussion and smoke inhalation as the bom-bom screams and dissolves with only a slight bit of smug satisfaction chasing the darkness. She is twenty-seven and cries as she runs her thumb over a patch sewed to the inside of her jacket—Pineguard, it says, but it means home and safe and wanted—as literal fucking Bigfoot smiles sincerely and extends an invitation to live at the Lodge. She is twenty-seven and finds love in a pretty hippie monster whose eyes glow and whose freckles are more meaningful than all the constellations ever seen.

Aubrey Little is almost twenty-eight and she is leaning against Dani—her _girlfriend_!!!!—when her phone buzzes. Three short bursts and a long one. It's Mama.

_**Check Ned's site. Got something fishy. Might be Silvane shit.** _

**ye**

She nudges Dani gently and giggles when she moans in protest. " _Nooo_ ," Dani whines.

"Mama says Pineguard shit. Move your cute ass." Aubrey presses her lips into Dani's forehead. The warmth lingers. It's _perfect_.

" _Blehhh_. Let Duck and Ned take care of it. Date _niiiiiight_..." Dani grabs ahold of Aubrey's arm and holds on for dear life.

"Can't and you _know_ it. Give up so I can go and come back so we can watch shitty bootlegs of Broadway musicals." Aubrey's face lights up as Dani pouts, but she did let go.

"Get me doughnuts?"

"Fritters?"

" _Hell_ yeah..." Dani lets out a soft sigh and snuggles up against Dr. Harris Bonkers, who's binkied out next to her.

"Kay. Love you." Aubrey pulls out her phone as she pulls on her jacket. _The Lamplighter_ is a bookmark in her browser and the homepage blinks up on her screen. She scans the first couple articles and then pauses. "Oh hell..."

**Ye. It def looks like bomboms. You tell duck and ned?**

**_Told Duck, not Ned._ **

**Aight. I'll call him, kay?**

**_Quiet zone._ **

**:/**

**_Use the wifi._ **

**Thx mama**

**_Please don't burn things._ **

**I make no promises**

Aubrey is almost twenty-eight and she is pursuing a career she never would have expected with a girlfriend she never would have dreamed of and friends she never would have made. She is almost twenty-eight and she's so, _so_ lucky.


	2. Gryphon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck Newton, the chosen one, runs from his fate and then right back into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chaboi is happy that Amnesty is the next season. Yay. We get the disaster bi Aubrey Little, poor Duck Newton, and Ned fucking Chicane.
> 
> Anyway...I'm sick so have this chapter. Whoop whoop.
> 
> (I'm dying, send help.)

Duck Newton is five when he first sees Minerva. He tells his mama bout how the blue fairy says he's special. She pats him on the head and tells him that _of course_ her little Ducky is special. He doesn't know the gravity of the situation just yet.

Duck Newton is eight when his mother starts to _worry_ about her boy. See, she and her husband have been divorced for about four years at this point, but they always made sure that Duck knew it was because Daddy moved a lot for his job and Mama _couldn't_ any more. It had _nothing_ to do with him. It wasn't his fault. So why was he continuing to talk to this "blue fairy"—someone only he could see? What had she done wrong? Would he be better off with his father? So she takes him to a psychologist and they sit and talk and sit and talk. The doctor—a long-haired hippie woman named Ford—says it's _normal_ for a child to have an imaginary friend, even at this age. Still, she worries. Duck doesn't talk about Minerva after that. It makes Mama sad.

Duck Newton is twelve years old and is being bullied by a small girl with a fox-like face and a voice like a whippoorwill. She says he's just doing good cause the teachers feel _sorry_ for his Mama being divorced n all. She says his grades are being adjusted and he's _retarded_ and _crazy_. She says that he talks t'himself all th' time and it's _weird_. She says he's a _freak_. She shoves him. Duck does nothing. He doesn't need to cuz he's a little tougher than most people think a chunky kid with fish-flesh skin and mud-brown hair would be. Still, the words hurt so he asks Minerva about why people are so mean. She just assures him that he's special and not to worry about others. " _YOU ARE ONE OF A KIND, DUCK NEWTON_ ". He doesn't really believe her but he thanks her anyway cause it's polite. His Mama didn't raise no fool.

Duck Newton is seventeen and hasn't talked to Minerva in almost five years. School has been coming down hard on him and, despite what people like to say, he does work hard. He works hard to remain wholly average, _loathing_ the concept of "special" and "chosen" with all of his teenage ennui. He has a B-average and spends his free time birdwatching and walking in the woods that surround his home. His mama is proud of him and that's _all_ that matters. (Duck tries to pretend that "destiny" is a faff and "fate" is falderall but he can only lie to himself for so long. One cold autumn night he fights with his mother over something inconsequential—as one does—and bolts to take a breather somewhere he feels at home. Minerva comes and he clenches his fists and swears and stomps and yells. He curses her, her existence, his "destiny" and so on. When his tear-blurred eyes clear, he sees his mother, hands clutching her bathrobe at her heart, looking as if he stabbed her. He bites back a roar of frustration, instead embracing her in a full hug and saying _sorry, sorry Mama, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry_. The next week he applies to a college out of state and plans on getting a degree in ecology or horticulture. He shoves aside Minerva and ignores her. His Mama comes first. _Fuck_ destiny.)

Duck Newton is twenty and struggling to keep afloat. His degree is virtually useless unless he wants to work for the EPA—something that his gut-instinct says is a bullshit idea and also _fuck_ the government—but there's an application sitting on his desk for a ranger position in the Monongahela National Forest that sings his name. Not _literally_ , of course. That's fucking dumb. Inanimate objects can't talk. His Mama is doing...okay. Her health is fine, her social security funds are keeping her comfortable in her small condominium in Helen, Georgia. She doesn't want for a thing but sometimes she gets a sad look in her eyes and she stares into eternity. Duck worries about having to place her in a home. His Daddy, never really _estranged_ so much as _distant_ and constantly traveling, passed away a few years back so his estate is being used to hold the remaining Newtons up. Still, it _scares_ him, this uncertainty. He doesn't want to go too far but...the idea of keeping a whole forest—an organism made of millions of organic and individual parts and pieces—in working order is beautiful and _very_ ideal. So when he feels the tug of instinct draw him to the application, he follows suit. A job that ain't flippin burgers at the local Krystal's would be ideal. (He ignores the soft whisper of what used to be Minerva telling him to accept his destiny.)

Duck Newton is twenty-one and drunk as all hell. He got the job. He's a bonified, gen-u-ine ranger now. So he celebrates his acceptance by seeking out a local dive bar in his new home of Kepler, West Virginia and drinking fire and ethanol. There he meets a man—older and grey with a full beard and a patchy tan, worn skin and hands indicating life spent toiling—who cajoles him heartily and buys him a round. His name is Edmund Chicane (though his _friends_ call him Ned) and he's a goddamn _riot_. They drink a bit more and, staggering away, Duck passes out on his futon with no memory of the trip back from the bar. Upon waking—the sun blinding him through a crack in his curtains—he is horrified to discover something that he picked up on the way home. A sword, coiled like a whip, resting on his nightstand. (His instincts say to take it but he leaves it be until he gets drunk enough to confront his horror. When he unsheaths the blade from its strange scabbard, it erects itself and speaks. It calls itself Beacon and is a haughty, self-serving thing with a love of wordplay. Duck is reminded of Minerva and tries to throw Beacon away a million times over. It never sticks. He always winds back up on his nightstand.)

Duck Newton is twenty-nine, almost thirty and at home in the strange duplicity of Kepler after so many years, and is out drinking with Ned. Despite the older man's tendency for misdirection and grifting—vis-a-vis his business, the Cryptonomica, a chitzy tourist trap to draw in spook-hunters—he is a _wonderful_ friend and a _great_ drinking companion. Duck has had _one_ too many shots and _maybe_ Ned has egged him on but he's been matching him drink for drink. They both are sauced as _fuck_ and Duck sloppily turns to his companion. He gripes about everything and then, eyes wide, beckons Ned to come home with him. It's not the first time they've slept at one another's place but it rarely leads to anything other than drunken games of backgammon or chess. Duck takes him back, hands him Beacon, and makes him promise to _take this as far away as you can please Ned, get rid of this for me, I can't have it here any more._ Ned, only one tenth there, agrees. Duck calls him a cab and passes out on his couch. The next morning Duck barely remembers a thing—though Beacon's lack of presence is a welcome silence for his hungover brain—though a post-it note tells him that Ned is tossing Beacon for him. He's never been happier.

Duck Newton is in his late forties and is patrolling the Monongahela Forest when he gets a call about a fire near the RV area. He is drawn into something he's been running from for so many years. He is in his late forties and stumbles upon a world adjacent to his own. He is in his late forties and is face-to-face with monsters and Bigfoots and magic and _Ned_?! He is drawn in deep and struggles to escape. Duck is in his late forties and retrieves Beacon from Ned's back room, horrified by the fact that interacting with this piece of his past is so natural. That interacting with his "destiny" feels right. He begrudgingly goes along with Torch Girl's plan. He helps defeat an abomination.

Duck Newton is in his late forties and he is horrified how easily he slips back into the whole "chosen one" shtick. Beacon is back in his apartment and Minerva is greeted like an old friend and Duck just keeps an eye out for the odd abomination. He texts Aubrey and calls Ned and has Mama and Barclay on speedial. But it's horrifying how easy it is to just forget the railing and raging against the mystical machine that governed his life and backslide into "yeah, okay, I'll save Silvane, whatever..."

His phone buzzes and he glances from his paperwork to see a text from Mama.

**_Ned's site has something that looks like an abomination._ **

**Link?**

Again, a buzz— _short-short-short-long_. A small joke no one but Duck would get. The link Mama sent is damning.

**Should I sequester the area?**

_**Damage control would be nice. I let Aubrey know and she's getting Ned. If you can maybe cast some false positives out for the other rangers and send me the schedule for whomever is on I'd appreciate it.** _

He sighs and rolls his eyes, subconsciously reaching for Beacon and his shortwave.

**I'll do my best. No promises though cuz the bossman kinda gets spooked if too much happens at once.**

_**Same.** _

He snorts.

**See you in ten?**

**_The Amnesty Lodge hall._ **

**Aight. Be safe.**

Duck Newton is in his late forties and strapping a talking whip-sword to his back while he prepares to divert attention so he and the rest of the Pineguard can plan to recon and destroy this abomination. He never expected his life to become what he fought against but...

fate is funny that way.


	3. Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned "Fucking" Chicane is not born with that name but he lives with it. It took him seventy years but he's finally found home.
> 
> Admittedly, he didn't think "home" would be an annoying 20-something, a magical magician, a forest ranger, and Literal Bigfoot. Nor did he think he'd find it in Kepler fucking West Virginia.
> 
> (Though he didn't think he'd ever find home, so...)

Lil' Neddy is five years old when his Ma complains about money for the first time. Sure, they don't really got _much_ , but Daddy, Ma, him, n' Spike are good as is, _right_? Cuz Santa brings him gifts on Christmas like that real neat radio so they can listen to _Ethel and Albert_ or _Broadway is My Beat_ or even _the Shadow_ , if Ma is feeling good 'nuff to let him stay up. And they got a _frig'rator_ and a _car_ and _food_! But lil' Neddy hears his Ma worrying about having enough to buy new shoes and he sits and thinks about how Molly up the street has new shoes every day but his Ma can't get some and how that just ain't _fair_. (He tries to sell his baseball cards for a couple dollars but the kid pushes him over and takes them without paying. Neddy don't tell no one tho cuz he ain't a snitch. Snitches get stitches.)

Ned is twelve and nicks a pack of Luckies from a corner store. It ain't cause he wants to smoke—though he _could_ if he wanted cause they won't restrict sales by age until thirty years later—but just to see that he _could_. Plus his Daddy and Ma afford themselves one luxury and Daddy's is smokes. Ma's is drinks but she goes the cheap vodka route while Daddy splurges on the _good_ shit. He wants to provide for his family, 'specially now that Spike got hit by a truck and can't go catch the vermin out back. When his Daddy and Ma see him sneaking the pack into the house, they grill him more than any cop would've. Ned ain't a good liar so his Ma catches him trying to pass off the smokes as paid for and her face isn't stone, it isn't steel or marble, but it's just... _disappointed_ and that hurts more than anger or a switch across his legs. Ned should consider himself lucky cause many other kids where he lives would've gotten _whooped_ within an inch of their lives but Daddy and Ma just look at him like he stole from _them_. Then his Daddy has him smoke the whole pack in one go. He's wheezing and crying by the fourth one and begging for a reprieve by the last. His Ma shakes her head and asks him if it was worth it. All he says is _sorry sorry sorry won't do it again I'm sorry_. Then they stew in tears and quiet while Ned thinks bout what he did and why it was wrong. Stealin ain't right. Don't do it. _Ever_. _Again_. ( _Next_ time he steals though, he doesn't get caught by his Ma and Daddy. He gets better at lying. He sells cut booze to kids and palms candy bars for dollar profits. Ma was disappointed when he was caught, so was Daddy, but money is money, and money made the world go round. They never noticed their bills were _less_ than before. They never noticed Ned singing showtunes as he walked. They never noticed Ned with a pocket full of dimes and half-dollar coins jangling brightly. They never noticed the box under his bed full of crumpled bills and stolen goods. Everything was _fine_. That was a lie.)

Eddy is eighteen and a letter arrives from the government. It's official and scary and has his full name on it. It's even marked as _urgent_. In the dark of his room at his childhood home, Eddy rips the envelope open and stares at the letter. It's the draft. Eddy's gotta go to war. (But he _doesn't_. Not just because Eddy's gotten to be a pretty good thief and the US Army won't take thieves, but because he just fucking _doesn't_. His Daddy and Ma don't like that he's dodging but...they'd rather have a _convict_ son than a _dead_ one. So he stays hidden in their basement until the war lets up. They're disappointed in his behavior, but they understand. He learns a finer appreciation of musicals. He learns how to sing better. He hides in wait.)

Ned is twenty and has found a job in petty thievery. Well, _he_ calls it petty. The Modesto PD calls it "grand larceny" and drops him in the clink. When his time is served he realizes that there's really no way to go back from here. He is a Criminal who has Done Crimes. Branded forever. _Well'p_...fuck him, he guesses. When he lands himself in the LA Correctional Facility, bail _far_ higher and time _far_ longer than he could ever hope to wait out, he just assumes that he really just _screwed_ the pooch. Then, a gentleman who only goes by the _nome de plume_ Mr. Smiles, offers to bail Ned out on the caveat that he...pays him back. Ned, still young, still foolish, accepts and lands himself 10K in the hole. That's okay though cause Mr. Smiles is a businessman of fine repute and offers Ned a job to pay him off. The job, of course, is thievery. (Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.)

Ned is thirty-something and knows just how boned he _really_ is. Mr. Smiles is a businessman, true, and the jobs he does for him are pretty cut and dry—grand larceny, little hit and run nicking jobs, ferrying the heavy guns from place to place while his sticky fingers keep lifting profits from pockets—but they don't _end_. And _just_ as Ned gets closer and closer to paying Mr. Smiles off—so close he can _taste_ the freedom and it is like cigarette ashes and cheap whiskey and the dust that gathers in motel rooms—he gets _caught_. His bail is raised because he has a Reputation. Mr. Smiles pays him out and there's another couple thou' in the hole. He'll _never_ escape. It's pretty obvious to him now. Ten years makes _quite_ a difference. So Ned puts his nose to the grindstone and chips away at the ever-growing monument to his naïveté. He knows he'll never be free but...one can dream, _right_? ( _All this for a loaf of bread_. All this for a pack of smokes. All this for his Daddy and Ma. All this and he gets in deeper and _deeper_.)

Ned is forty-six and his 'job' with Mr. Smiles has him in Area 51, eating a shitty burger in a greasy tourist trap. Ned's current _partner_ —a word here used to mean 'hired muscle and-or babysitter'—snipes about the chitzy look of it all. _Disgusting_. A _bigger_ con than the ones _they_ perform. _Bo_ -ring! Ned bites back on his retort because there's something charming about the way that it's a grift that no one is hurt by. Shitty toys and "proof" of aliens sold to slavering children and X-Files enthusiasts and conspiracy theorists. Money made on nothing but lies and cheap plastic. He pockets a small "space rock" that's actually a chunk of asphalt dusted with glitter. It has no value but as a reminder it does well. It's a pity that his partner ushers them to the residential area down the street. He would've liked to see more of those types of scams. (Later, when the cops are chasing them and his partner misses a turn and slams the front of their car into a tree, Ned wrestles with his conscience and the opportunity to be free from Mr. Smiles. He can't own a _dead_ man. Blood trickling from a large gash on his forehead, he pries the trunk open, stuffs his pockets with valuables, then bolts as sirens get closer and closer. _This Ned is dead_ , he thinks. _This Ned no longer exists. I'm finally free._ )

Ned Chicane—the last name is a new addition, a little _joke_ at the expense of the English language—is in his mid-sixties; older now, but no less vibrant. He has more time to sing as he runs the business that was entrusted to him. It occurs to him now, after the fact of it all, that she was the first person to _really_ trust him. To _believe_ in him. To care _for_ him. Long after his parents have passed, she was the only one who didn't distrust him. It's a warm and dark chocolate feeling. (He feels like there are songs about this. Sondheim seems to be the one to make such music. He should check his record collection.) Here in Kepler, West Virginia, Ned runs a cryptozoological tourist trap—something some of the stuffier members of the council call a "spook trap" as well as other _less_ polite things—named the Cryptonomica. Most of the shit there is fake—because _who_ the _hell_ believes in _Bigfoot_ of all things?!—but he _does_ have a large collection of more... _legitimate_ items of worth that he hocks for money when rent gets near. It's not lucrative but it's _work_. And he's found home in the people of Kepler.

Ned "Fucking" Chicane is nearing seventy but his stride is as purposeful as ever. Never mind the ivory-handled cane with an iron tip he uses for support. Never mind the morning aches that only fade after _too_ much _too_ concentrated coffee and two packs of Goody's. Never mind the fact that he's getting evicted soon. He has his business and he has Kirby— _despite_ the younger man's protesting—and he has Duck Newton, a younger gentleman who works at the Ranger Department. They bond over fake monsters and real animals and whisky and men and women. They laugh together as only true friends do. He trusts Ned and Ned isn't sure how to handle that. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, after all, and Ned is ingrained with almost fifty years of using people as disposable barriers between him and the law. But it's easy to pretend, even for a little while, that he cares. That he really, _truly_ cares. ( _These are my friends_. He never forgets the purpose of those lyrics. Tools. _Items_. Not really friends. But he can hope. And he can wish.)

Ned "Fucking ~~Discretion~~ " Chicane is seventy and driving the _real_ Bigfoot to the middle of the Monongahela Forest while wearing a mock-up Bigfoot costume made of an old Wookie suit, after said _real_ Bigfoot beat up an oozing, giant bobcat. He's pretty sure its a dream but _fuck_ man, he is gonna fucking _rock_ this dream! _Hi-ho Silver—away!_ He is seventy and runs his car into a once-invisible-now-visible Stonehenge-ass gate (or _Gate_?) and now Duck Newton, Mama—the proprietor of Amnesty Lodge—and a confused looking black woman covered in tattoos and piercings with flames on her fingers—actual, _literal_ flames, as in _fire_ , as in " _should be burning her_ " fire—are staring at him as the _real_ Bigfoot explains that shit's gone pear-shaped. That leads to that fucking monster coming back and _oh, wow, it's not a dream. Fuck._ He is seventy and giving Duck back his weirdass sword. The sword _talks_. It's also a whip and _magic_ and so is Duck kinda-sorta. He _shouldn't_ be surprised anymore. Not after the night he had. Ned "Fucking ~~Discretion~~ " Chicane is seventy and is nervously singing as he lures this big fucking not-from-here abomination by covering his Continental in animal and human waste and then driving it recklessly through the Monongahela to the place where Aubrey " _The Lady Flame_ " is planning on setting the damn thing alight to kill it for good. He's never stuck his neck out for anyone like this before, let alone put himself in harm's way so _literally_. It's _horrifying_. It's _terrifying_. It's _exhilarating_. (Somehow he survives it all and _and and_ —god he kinda understands what it's like to be the protagonist of the musicals he loves so much. He feels like goddamn Lafayette. _Vivé la Ned! Down with the monarchy!_ The adrenaline is _addicting_.)

Ned Chicane is seventy and some change and the Cryptonomica has never been doing better. Kirby, in all his millennial wisdom, turns _the Lamplighter_ into a massive draw for his so-called "spook trap". It's about six pm when his phone buzzes a few times. His brow furrows as he tries to remember whose vibration that is. (He only _pretends_ to be bad with computers and such. It's more fun that way. And Kirby whines about it all the time.) _S.O.S._ That's Aubrey. He unlocks his phone and his eyebrows meet his receding hairline.

_**Ned. Neddy. Ned fucking discretion Chicane!** _

_**if u dont answer me imma fukkin sic kirby on u** _

_**tell him bout the camera** _

_**dont test me** _

**Wut iz it**

_**...almost forgot how bad u text** _

**Wut u mean**

_**lamplighter. check this shit man. think we got one and ur boi found it first** _

Ned absently opened the link and sighed. He saw this one already. Didn't think much of it _but_...fool me once.

**damn. U sure iz bombom**

_**mama n duck do. p sure ye** _

**letz go then. ill start up my car. b there in lyk 10. teh lodge thn**

_**Ned. Ned no. Stop. Blease old man. Spare me.** _

**u no laik txtng this wae**

_**Ned. I'm dying Ned. You've slain me.** _

**do i drive or nah**

_**I'm coming to get you, you absolute monster. You fucking ruined texting for me. Damn you Ned Goddamn Chicane. Fuck.** _

**You're no fun.**

He smiles at his phone and then locks it, reaching to snag his walking cane. Messing with people is always fun. Fucking with them in their spaces is even more so.

**Ten minutes then? And how many seats do you have?**

_**Yes and just enough for us. No-one else NED.** _

**No. Fun.**

**See you then. ;)**

_**Yuckaroonie** _

**;***

_**Blocked. Blocked. Blocked. None of you are free from sin.** _

He let out a sharp bark of laughter and leaned back in his chair.

Ned Chicane is seventy and some change and he has never felt more loved and more useful and more needed than he does now. And sure, life didn't turn out the way he expected. Nothing ever does, but it's okay. He works for the Pineguard to stop _real_ monsters from killing everyone in town while also selling _fakeass_ monsters to idiot tourists. He also has an iPod filled with every musical song he's ever heard of. Life is good. Life is fun. _There's no day but today._

**Author's Note:**

> `We quarrelled last March--just before he went mad, you know--' (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) `--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing
> 
> "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!  
> How I wonder what you're at!"
> 
> You know the song, perhaps?'
> 
> `I've heard something like it,' said Alice.
> 
> `It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, `in this way:--
> 
> "Up above the world you fly,  
> Like a tea-tray in the sky.  
> Twinkle, twinkle--"'
> 
> Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep `Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop.
> 
> `Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter, `when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the time! Off with his head!"'
> 
> `How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice.
> 
> `And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, `he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.'
> 
> A bright idea came into Alice's head. `Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?' she asked.
> 
> `Yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: `it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.'
> 
> `Then you keep moving round, I suppose?' said Alice.
> 
> `Exactly so,' said the Hatter: `as the things get used up.'
> 
> `But what happens when you come to the beginning again?' Alice ventured to ask.
> 
> `Suppose we change the subject,' the March Hare interrupted, yawning.


End file.
